'That all?' Marconi asks.
'First his gun disappears, and it kills two pushers,' Folio interjects. 'And now he gets himself killed. This case stinks - almost as much as you do, Inspector. And what the fuck are you wearing?' Frolli says, holding up his hands and looking like he's about to start pulling his hair out.
Marconi looks down at himself. He has totally forgotten that he's dressed like some crazed fan of a heavy metal group.
'I was undercover.'
'Which means you haven't been home yet, eh?'
'Enough, OK? I'm really not in the mood.'
'Ah, he's not in the mood. Neither was I, first thing this morning, when they called me back on duty after only a few hours off.'
'I was following up an important lead.'
'Yes, I can see how good a lead it was. Two dead in the space of a few hours and you're nowhere to be found. Fantastic.'
'Listen…' Marconi begins.
'Careful what you say.'
'Look at this.' Galliera beckons them over:
He points at the long knife that has been placed next to the victim, with three roses arranged on either side.
'It looks like a kitchen knife. The sort you use to cut meat.'
'It's not as if we'll find any fingerprints,' says Marconi, staring at the roses bathed in blood. It looks like a painting, of exceptional beauty and ferocity. Then his gaze falls on to the man's white shirt, stained with blood around chest height.
'Just a minute,' he says. 'Hey, you with the gloves, lift this up.' He is pointing at the dead man's jacket.
He observes for a moment and then says: 'These aren't splashes. They're fingerprints. They look like they come from bloodstained fingers. Here as well - on the inside pocket of the jacket.'
'The murderer was looking for something,' Tommasi exclaims.
Yes, and I'd give anything to know what.
As soon as he leaves the murder scene, Marconi rushes outside. He needs to see the sky. He needs to breathe.
* * *
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Eva is laying the table ready for her friend. She has bought everything she needs. Little pink candles and a larger one with a red heart to put in the centre of the cake. A cake made with cream and chocolate and decorated with strawberries.
She's also got some appetisers, but she didn't get them from Lina, where she bought the cake, even though she knows that theirs are really good. She preferred to order them from that bar near the Two Towers, so she could see the barman again. The one who was so nice. And so cute.
It was he himself who answered the phone, and Eva explained that she was the girl who had celebrated her birthday there a while ago.
'I remember you.'
She didn't believe him, but then he added: 'Who could ever forget eyes like yours?'
After work she had hurried over to pick up the appetisers, already ordered, and he had offered her a drink. A fruit-based cocktail, thirst-quenching. He had asked her where she usually hung out.
'I don't go out much. I don't know that many people here.'
The barman had handed her a card. On it was written his phone number with a smiley face drawn instead of a zero.
Miew is rubbing herself against Eva's legs. Come on you, I'll have to wash my hands again. The cat looks up at her, still wanting to be petted. Oh, OK, then. She bends down and takes Miew up in her arms. You're the only one for me, do you know that? The one love of my life. And she kisses her on the nose. The cat looks at her with large, luminous green eyes. 'And you're mine,' she seems to be saying, instead of a miaow.
* * *
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Marconi never usually goes home at lunchtime, but today isn't a usual day.
First, he absolutely must change his clothes.
Second, he feels dirty. Perhaps he really does smell, like that bastard Frolli suggested, given that he'd been sweating so much because of the drugs that crazy woman put in his drink. And perhaps also because of the fear he had felt.
More than anything he feels dirty, as if he has been violated deep inside. He thinks that perhaps he can now understand how women feel after they have been the victims of sexual violence. He tries to drive the idea from his head, as it hurts too much to think about it now. A nice shower is what he needs. But first an aspirin. He hates pills, but this time he really needs to take something, because every part of him hurts.
Both his body and his head.
He lets the steaming hot water flow over him. He scrubs with the soap where large purple bruises have appeared. On his wrists, his ankles, then the bite marks on his chest and neck, and the fingernail scratches on his back. He can't reach the scratches but he can feel them sting under the hot water.
While the water courses over his skin, scarlet images appear before his eyes, like the frames of a film. Of last night, of that narrow room, the claustrophobic space where he was imprisoned and where he had been thinking: This is how it feels before you die.
And, instead of him, other people had died, carried away by that unknown assassin on her black horse of death.
She has killed an old man and a boy, like in that song he used to sing when he was small.
He turns off the tap with a flick of his wrist and just stands there dripping and staring at the bright blue tiles. Then he reaches outside the white shower curtain, grabs the bathrobe that's always there - one fixed point in his too erratic life - and puts it on.
He drags himself to the armchair and sits down, his back to the room and his face turned towards the sun streaming through the blinds, puncturing the darkness of the room with tiny golden spirals.
He has too much to think about. So he tries not to think about anything.
He picks up his mobile to check the calls he missed during last night's bad dream.
He's never had so many phone calls. Thirty calls he hasn't answered.
Five from Tommasi, two from the police station, two from the questore (which doesn't bode well), three from Frolli, three numbers he doesn't recognise and five calls from Viola. He gives a start: he doesn't know why, but he's afraid for her. He is about to click on her name, but the phone starts ringing. The call is from an unknown number.
The city is hidden under a blue veil. The sun has already set and darkness is resuming its territory.
He can't believe it. Everything is happening at once. One phone call after another.
As if everyone's conscience has been awakened at the same time. As if fear has opened a Pandora's box of secrets. Two telephone calls. Two women. Two truths that lay hidden but are now exposed to the light of day.
* * *
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Eva sings happy birthday to Giulia, as she lights the candles.
The small, square table is set for two, with a checked green linen tablecloth.
Eva sings and watches her friend, who seems genuinely happy for once.
The tray that held the appetisers is empty. The last one is lying in Miew's bowl, the cat studying it, trying to work out how to eat it. In the meantime, the cake lends colour to the table and lights up the girls' greedy eyes.
'Thank you. Truly. No one has ever made a birthday tea for me like this. I mean… just for me, from the heart. And not just because it's expected.'
'Don't mention it. You've done so much for me over the last year, and I don't think I've ever thanked you properly.'
'Rubbish! I've not done anything, and that's the truth.'
'It's not true, Giulia. You've done so much for me.' And she clasps her friend's hand.
'You know, you're making me feel like a hypocrite…'
'Oh, stop it. Come on, you have to cut the cake.'
'Just a minute. Let me finish…'
'If that's what you want.'
'I've never done anything for anybody. I pretend to, perhaps, but really I only help other people if there's something in it for me. I'm not a nice person. But it's not my fault. I'm just like that. I've been like that for as long as I remember.'
'But you really have helped me a lot.'
'But only because I needed you. The truth is I'm lonely; I've got no one. Everything around me is all fake. You're the only real thing that's happened to me… and now I'm so embarrassed.' She looks down at the floor. Perhaps she's about to cry.
'Giulia, you saved my life, believe me,' and Eva squeezes her hand even tighter.
'You're so good to me, even about the car…'.
'You shouldn't be embarrassed - quite the opposite. Tell me how it went.'
'He said yes, he's going to buy me it. He was as meek as a lamb. He must have been thinking about something else. I can't wait, I wanted it so much. Thanks for your advice - your idea was great.'
'I'm happy for you.'
'Really?'
'Yes, I told you.'
'Look what I stole for us from the club.' Giulia gets up and opens her orange Prada bag. 'Voila, champagne for the girls!' 'Wow. I've never had champagne. Let's get rid of this cheap stuff first. There!' Eva throws back her head, and the contents of her glass disappear.
Giulia does the same. She grins. 'Cake first, or champagne?'
Miew seems more restless than usual. She jumps on to the sofa and miaows to attract attention.
'What's wrong with your cat today? She's insufferable.'
'Perhaps it's the moon.'
'What do you mean, "the moon"?' Giulia doesn't understand.
'Champagne?'
'OK, you ready?' And she shakes the bottle.
'We'll be soaked if you do that.'
Pop.
The champagne explodes in a roar of bubbles. The cat dives under the sofa.
The intercom buzzes.
Silence.
'Are you expecting someone?' Giulia asks, amazed.
'No. Perhaps they've pressed the wrong button. It happens all the time. They ring any bell to get someone to open the door. A real Casanova lives above me.'
'Just when we were about to have our toast.'
Eva pushes the button to open the door, and comes back to her chair.
'But what if it was for you?'
'It's never for me. I keep telling you, nobody ever wants me.'
Giulia stands still, with the two overflowing glasses in her hands. She looks uncertain. She stares at the bubbles that swim to the surface and explode as they make contact with the air. She hands one glass to Eva. 'To us, and to friendship.' She raises her glass.
They can hear footsteps running up the stairs. The girls remain silent, as if there's an unspoken agreement between them to wait for something that's about to happen. Giulia clinks her glass against her friend's, a way of carrying on with her birthday. Her lips reach out to the golden liquid in a kiss that isn't consummated.
Someone bangs violently on the door, sounding like they might want to break it down. A voice shouts: 'Police! Open the door. We've got a search warrant.'
Eva jumps up, then freezes to the spot, while Giulia, panicking, starts to scream.
Seconds pass that seem to last for hours.
'Open up!'
The girl goes towards the door, one step at a time. She stops in front of the one defence she has left, before sliding back the bolt. Then she lowers the handle of the reinforced door. Stuck on the back of the door is a picture of her sister, aged five, wearing the salopettes from Candy Candy she used to own.
She steps back. Three men burst into the room.
One shows her his badge. 'Inspector Marconi,' he says, gazing into the girl's ice-cold eyes, She stares at him but doesn't say a word.
The other policemen are both holding guns. They look at the two girls. Marconi stares at Eva. He's sure he recognises her, and she too loses herself in his stare, silently, as she clenches her fists.
The light from the candles dance over the whipped cream, like restless ghosts on a windy night.
Marconi takes another step forward. He grabs Eva's arm and moves her out of the way.
'Giulia Montanarini, I'm arresting you for murder. For the murder of Enzo Montanarini, and others.'
'My father… dead? No… no!' cries Giulia, stepping backwards, her eyes full of tears. 'I haven't killed anyone!' she shouts hysterically. 'Help me, Eva. Help me! I haven't killed anyone.'
Eva flattens herself against the wall, to allow the other policemen past her. They move towards Giulia, who is now standing with her back to the window.
'No! Daddy! No!' And she lets herself fall to the floor.
The policemen lift her up bodily, the handcuffs close round her slender wrists. The wax from the candles on the cake drip like tears on to the blood- red strawberries.
'Congratulations, Inspector. You've solved the case less than six hours after the murder. And who would have thought it - Giulia? I've known her since she was just a child.' The questore shakes his hand. 'But tell me, Inspector, how did you do it?'
'I didn't do anything.' Marconi doesn't say it out of modesty, because he really hasn't done anything. 'I've got to go now,' he adds. 'My shift isn't over yet.'
* * *
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
The doorbell rings, and yet again he's about to become the bearer of bad news.
Another closed door that's about to open. The pallid girl flings it open without even looking at him. She has been waiting for him, wide awake, for twenty-four hours - but the man who enters the semi- darkness of the too empty, too cold house isn't who she was expecting.
'Oh, it's you.'
'Viola, I have to talk to you.'
'I can't now. My boyfriend's due back and I don't want him to find you here.'
'Viola, sit down. I have to tell you something important.'
'Not now… please.' It seems to be a struggle for her to talk. She hides herself among the cushions on the sofa.
'It's about Marco.'
'What do you have to tell me about Marco? Something's happened to him, hasn't it?' She gets up and almost instantaneously is standing opposite him, her eyes shining, already moistening with tears.
'Take it easy, Viola. Come and sit down.' He likes to use her name. Viola. It sounds nice - delicate, soft.
'I don't want to sit down. I want to know what you came here to tell me, and then you must go.'
'I don't know how to tell you.'
She hangs on his every word, waiting, voraciously, leaning towards him.
She thinks about the roses in the blood. Yet that dream no longer interrupts her sleep. No longer calls to her. But that dream used to accompany the angel of death; she's certain of that.
'What's happened? What is it? Come on, tell me, you bastard!' She starts to beat her fists against his chest. The vampire bites still hurt, so Marconi grabs her slender arms and holds them still in a grasp that manages to be both determined and delicate.
But the girl cries out with pain, as if needles were hidden in that gentle touch. He lets go immediately, and sees them.
'God, what have you done…?'
'Keep away from me. Just tell me what you came for.'
Purple streaks across her white flesh. Cries tattooed on to the skin. They don't want to stay hidden any more.
She moves away from him.
'Marco's been arrested.'
For a second Viola seems relieved. The police officer isn't saying 'He's dead' like that earlier time she still remembers so well. But then she starts crying again. 'What has he done?' She stares out at the emptiness that surrounds her.
Marconi would like to tell her how Marco sold drugs to children, that he fucked several Romanian girls in exchange for drugs, and that he has killed a minor, without showing an ounce of pity.
He would also like to tell her that the girl who was keeping him hidden in her home grassed him up after he had given her a beating. Yes, Marco had made a big mistake there. He had thought he could treat some untamed girl like he treated his fiancée. But a girl like that doesn't like being controlled - even Marconi had realised that when he visited her regarding Mario Rossi, the man with the name used in the advert.
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br /> Marco had threatened her, hit her and, to frighten her, had even described to her how traitors like Fabietto ended up.
'I'm not asking much of you - just let me stay here a few days till things quieten down,' he had said to her, while still dirty. Still covered in blood and filth.
She had let him do whatever he wanted. Everything he wanted. She had even let him touch her with those hands stained with blood.
But then, the day after, after preparing a plate of spaghetti for him, after having smiled at him as she gazed into his eyes, she had gone out to buy some beer. And then she had called that number, the one written on the crumpled card that the cop had left her after the death of the man she had been living with, Mario Rossi.
But instead of all that, Marconi says, 'Drugs.'
'And that's why he didn't come home to me?'
'I imagine so.'
The rolled-up sleeves of her jumper, rumpled like the pain showing in every feature of her face, leave the still raw scars uncovered. They are of different lengths, different colours. The darkest must be the oldest; the ones that look red perhaps still smell of blood, the same smell that perfumes Marconi's own aching body.
He would like to hug her tight, but he doesn't move.
He looks at her head among the cushions, shaking with her deep sobbing. She is so fragile.
'And the roses?' She asks, still worried.
Marconi immediately understands what she is talking about. The roses.
He thinks about how the case has been solved without him even realising it.
The phone call to the police station from that woman with a strange accent, slightly forced, who said she was called Jin Holin and that she was the maid at the Montanarini house.
The Girl with the Crystal Eyes Page 17
